Devil's Dance
by Angel Wolf
Summary: A troublesome ghost is causing havoc for the Vice Kings at Kingdom Come Records. Who you gonna call? Dante, that's who. He doesn't really care about the whole thing. Will he succeed? /:Because he isn't able to be selected currently, Benjamin King also stars.
1. Meet and Greet

Hello all, this is something new. At first, i wanted to just make this a spin off of **Devils Like Us** , but it morphed off into it's own thing.  
This is now a stand alone story set in a classic-styled universe with an emphasis on crime thriller and the paranormal.  
In particular, it's set between DMC 3 & DMC 1.

I still have plans for a SR/DMC crossover set in the same setting as **Devils Like Us** , it just won't be today.

Anyway, some notes before jumping in: I gave Dante the same appearance as his TGS 2005 trailer, which if you haven't seen, is the same as the cover art. I'm not gonna lie, it looks pretty cool. I always wished Capcom had used that for his DMC4 outfit instead of what we got. The trailer is pretty cool,  
like a little slice of what culture was like twelve years ago. I tend to forget how ingrained in the Matrix the Devil May Cry series is/was.

Oh! And Dante DOES NOT have the facial appearance of the trailer. I'll be ambiguous about what he looks like, so just imagine which ever version you prefer of the man, dressed in those clothes.

Please note that this also blends a myriad of different genres. I wanted to select humor and horror additionally, but the two genre limit prevents that.

Well, that's it for now. Reviews are appreciated. I really want feedback on this.

 **Update: If anyone's confused as to the tone of this, don't go in expecting it to be Saints Row 3 or 4. THIS IS PRE-SAINTS ROW 2 . . . Dumbass.**

* * *

 **The Devil May Cry Office**

* * *

Dante sat in his chair with his legs propped up on the desk. It was his trademark by now.

Unusually, he was wearing opaque sunglasses that blocked out any sunlight. The blinds were drawn anyway.

His office was dark and spacey.  
The walls were decorated with various little things he'd collected over the years, and there were comfy couches off to the sides for visitors to use when they came by.

To his right was a cozy little fridge set up with some cheap alcohol.

It was just for show, he couldn't get drunk off the stuff. He couldn't get drunk ever.

So he just didn't drink.

Next to it was a pool table he used, often for novelty more than legitimate competition.

At least the whole area could be called safe. It was connected to a small studio apartment that he lived out of in back.  
There was an upstairs level too, but that was for other things.

The man was decked out in a vermillion leather coat, under which he wore a black zip-up sweater over a gray button-up shirt.  
His pants were a smudgy brown, heavily faded from their vibrant days. The boots were taller than normal, solid black up to two inches under his knees.  
They were leather and made for high impact. He'd also stopped wearing gloves after a while. They started to really bother his grip.

On to his physical appearance, he looked generally handsome, and his familiar snow-white hair drooped lazily in it's trademark cowlick.

His belt buckle was a four-sided axe. Silver in composition. Unruffled, his jacket usually came down to match the edges of his lace-less boots.

There was a bit of an equilibrium there.

It soon became evident that the sunglasses were meant to hide something. There was a semi-annoying, little rumble coming from his mouth every few seconds.

He'd fallen asleep on the job. Tsk, tsk.

The front door jingled open. A woman with high-heeled boots strolled in.  
They were brown and biker in style.  
She wore a mocking, white pinstripe suit without a bra, letting her chest dangle liberally. She _never_ had a nip-slip.

Not so that you'd notice.

She had a perfectly feathered hairstyle and a blocky fringe that covered her forehead. Her shade was naturally onyx, and so reflective off the light of his dingy ceiling lamp-fans.  
Across the bridge of her nose lay a pair of sunglasses colored a dull grey. They hid a now-not-so-visible scar, of which she had many elsewhere.

On her back was a bazooka of all things, among a cavalcade of other guns, somehow hidden from sight, all over her gear.

"Wake up, prick." She said.

How lovely.

" . . ." He didn't really react at first. In truth he'd been awake the moment she parked her motorcycle outside.

"I said wake up!" She sarcastically yelled, slamming her hands down on his mahogany desk.

The man abruptly shifted into a blur. He threw his own specs in the trash. They were cheap-oes.  
Dante grasped both her wrists and forced them up in front of her chest, all while stepping around his desk.  
This whole thing occurred within a solitary second.

She wasn't expecting such a rush of air.

"Hey, that desk's older than you." The slayer said rather lazily, releasing her from his light grip.

"Well good morning to you too." The lady stared at him blankly for a moment.

"It's three o'clock . . . in the morning. What is it this time?"

"Someone downtown heard you deal in the paranormal. They put the word out they wanted to talk to you." She explained.

The man glared at her for a sharp minute. She was so odd. Both of her eyes were a separate color; one blue, and the other amber.  
In some places, where the scars used to run deep, she'd smoothed over and grown away from them.  
They'd faded away as time went on, leaving her skin mostly unblemished, and making her wispy face increasingly alluring. Men _do_ notice these things too, even though Dante was technically only half.

"A guy wants me _at three?_ "

Why did he even bother asking sometimes?  
She gave a wry little smirk, which was common whenever she felt superior to him.

"Oh, not just anyone. It's a case of . . . Ghosts." She said, apprehensive of how he might react.

She was tough, and had a good, relatively thick physique, but she knew what kind of things this man was capable of.

He cocked an eyebrow up, "You mind repeatin' that?"

"You heard me."

"Yeah, I just didn't like what you said. What d'ya mean 'Ghosts?'" The man retorted, blithering in kind.

" _I mean, I_ called up Morrison, and he set up a meeting in thirty minutes for us at the Club Obsidian." She was dead serious.

"Okay. I give up. Lets go." He said and grabbed two guns scattered on his desk.

The man holstered them quickly after giving both a good-luck spin.  
There was a weapon sticking out of the wall next to his studio. It was the trusty Rebellion, fully awakened and emanating raw power.

He grabbed the impractically sized weapon and placed it inside a guitar case, then strapped it on his back. The blade itself was about five feet long and a solid inch thick, width wise.  
The depth of it, in general, was around four inches.

He didn't have a sheath. Instead, the weapon just seemed to cling to his back magnetically, like it needed him to survive.

Déjà Vécu.

"After you, your heinous."

She gave him a hard scowl for that one, "Uh huh, charming."

* * *

 **Outside The Office**

* * *

Outside, she got on her cycle and then beckoned him to join her. When he refused, she glared out of confusion, asking, "Why not?"

"That thing is slow. With the way this city is, you'll get stuck in traffic." He told her.

"Okay, smartass, how are you gonna get there then?" She felt him out as arrogant, often believing him to be full of shit.

"I'll run." There was a slight degree of facetiousness across his face.

This wasn't lost on her.

"That a fact? I'll beat you there with this _'thing,'_ how about that?"

"Your funeral." He said and departed with a slow walk.

Ooh, that was a bit too jerky. She revved up her engines and fired off into the night, leaving him behind, submerged in darkness. It was a bit of a long drive.  
Most buildings were shut down until later in the morning. The only thing open at this time of night were specialty stores . . . and strip clubs.  
They were supposed to head to the latter. It was both a lap dance joint and a place for drug deals. It wasn't a usual meeting ground for Dante, that's for sure.

The woman sped down the open streets. Everyone who pranced around during the day was asleep inside their red-light homes.

It wasn't a great area to begin with.

The silver slayer had just moved there.

She felt the breeze blister by. It had been cool and forgiving when standing still, or walking, but traveling at eighty miles per hour made it as frigid as an ice storm.

Lo and behold, the woman was forced to break hard. Unexpectedly, there was a swarm of cars clogging up the road.

She observed that there was enough oncoming traffic that she couldn't even cut around it all.

What rotten luck. A whole ten minutes went by of cruising at a whopping five miles per hour. And it started to rain. Brilliant.  
After about twenty humiliating minutes, the woman sped along through the traffic, breaking numerous laws to successfully clear the block.  
She continued down the road and eventually reached the parking lot of the Obsidian

It was dark and cold, though cozy lighting and the smell of cigarettes and shame leaked outside.  
She hastily found a parking spot underneath a special canopy in front of the joint.

There were hardly any parking spots not taken up by cars. This was the witching hour for sex.

* * *

 **Club Obsidian**

* * *

She turned off the engine and managed to keep herself in order. There was barely enough lighting to allow her to see.  
Glimpsing a sidewalk, she chose to traverse it to her left.

Thankfully, that was the direction of the doors. They were brown and classy, most likely made of an impressive sounding wood, though she had no interest.  
The architecture to the place was astounding for a downtown club.

It was almost gothic; like a real stylish building from upstate New York in the thirties.

Big Greek blocks made up the smooth sidewall she used as a guide while hobbling over. There was a single light above the doors.  
From inside, she heard beat-driven music that sounded like hip-hop, but she couldn't be sure.

Standing across from her, beneath the opposite black awning, was a man most familiar.

"So, that 'thing' ain't working out too well, huh?" Dante was a bastardly one when he wanted to be.

She got angry and ruffled her clothes back into place. She righted many of her holsters but lacked her bazooka.  
Rightfully, she chose not to take the massive weapon, leaving it back at Dante's place.

The thing was too high profile for someone to be carrying around, even at night.  
The cops could let a lot of things slide, but a rocket launcher basically begged investigation, or else they'd get fired.

No one carries that kind of thing around unless they're gonna use it.

"Just go inside." She said, vexed from the ordeal.

He smirked and gave a little chap of the lips, placing one hand on the door and effortlessly pushing it forward, strolling into the club.

She'd been right; it was hip-hop. Specifically, Snoop Dogg.

She wasn't a fan, so she couldn't say what track it was, but Dante seemed to be grooving into it, so she did what she could.

If the exterior was ostentatious enough, then the interior was even more over-the-top. It resembled some Vegas bar, like something out of the Luxor.  
The whole building had a dim lighting to it, there were food and beverages constantly shuffled to it's occupants, and on one side was an elevated dance floor in the middle.  
A sturdy pole, marked up with smudges, stood in the center. The music still played but it appeared the scheduled dancer had already performed.

The place was filled with African American men and women, all dressed in yellow. Odd, considering the kind of job they'd been approached with.

In fact, they quickly realized they were the _only_ white people in the entire place.

The difference made them shine like a neon sign further downtown. Almost every single person glared at them oddly.

The slayer was confident in spite of this.

Taking it all in stride he stood relaxed and scanned the area. Eventually, he spotted the only other white person across the room; Morrison.

He was seated at a large booth across from a more classily-dressed gent. This man had a tight buzz cut and looked to be in his mid-to-late-thirties.  
Like the many people that inhabited the area, he was wearing something yellow; a business shirt, alongside a black tie and blazer.  
They assumed his pants were also dark, even though they couldn't see them. Looking the most important, he was also black, unsurprisingly.

Meanwhile, Morrison looked as he usually did; middle-aged, handlebar mustache, sandy hair, a white shirt, and a black vest with brown slacks.

They appeared to be deep in conversation. A bizarre sight, this was not the usual type of client he tended to accrue for them.

Nevertheless, they entertained the situation, with the lady being mostly shielded by Dante's pure charisma like an energy shield.

He began closing in on the two.

She dared not leave his side.

The gang looked ready to kill them at the slightest provocation, and whereas her friend was beyond death in a technical sense, _she_ was still only mortal.

After a tense minute, they reached the table.

" . . . They usually cover cases pertaining to anything involving supernatural phenomena. But they're also prepared for other kinds of cases, yes."  
Morrison was explaining the general nature of their business to the man.

"What about protection? Bodyguard kinda stuff?" The immaculate client said to their manager. His voice was uncommonly deep.

"It's a full service, mostly geared towards client request, though if the respective agent assigned chooses to refuse the work- Ah, Dante, Lady.  
I'd like you all to meet Mr. King! He owns Kingdom Come Records-" He was cut off.

King, interrupting, "Much, much more than that. You could say I'm an entrepreneur."

He was serious but lighthearted at the same time, an odd old mixture.

"Eh- right, he also owns a majority of other powerful businesses downtown and throughout the city." Morrison dressed it up, but the man was a lot more criminal than he let on.

Dante was smart enough to tell.

"So, a kingpin?" He said nonchalantly, casually putting his hand and leaning against the booth's tall border wall, next to Morrison.

"Heh hehe. You brought me someone smart, man. I like it." King was unusually open about it.

"Dah, well- So-. . . S-So Mr. King has decided to contact you about a peculiar business matter." The man struggled to maintain his copacetic.

"A ghost. I heard. What's that all about?" Dante cut to the chase no matter what.

"Alright, you don't mess around. Warren, tell him." He spoke to a confidant sitting next to him.

This one was dressed the same as, but inverted from, the boss.

After some hesitation, " . . . Aw right, check it out, okay? Some of my homies said that when one of their friends was gettin' married, the day before, the soon-to-be found her man in bed wit a white bitch. Instead of callin' off the wedding, this bitch pulls out a fuckin' glock and shoots herself on the fucking spot."

He was reluctant to tell this story.

"Okay . . . aaaand what? She came back from hell three days later? That's happened before, ya know." The snowy hybrid really didn't care.  
He was promised a god damned ghost.

" _What happened was,_ she blew out her brains. There was a panic, don't really know the specifics o' what happened after that, but . . .  
Round' the record building, people started seein' some stuff go in n' out, like the power; lights especially. Also, some of the recording tech.  
That shit all started goin' crazy; flickerin' and cutting off at weird times, playin' tracks and weird sounds nobody worked on.  
People're goin' paranoid, next thing I know, I try to handle dis shit and I see it . . ." Warren inexplicably paused.

It pained him to remember.

"You saw 'the soon-to-be?'" Dante easily guessed. He knew he was right.

Warren lit up a cigarette, though on closer inspection, it was actually a pre-rolled joint. He took a huge puff and his eyes reddened.

"Yeah. This-. . . whatever the fuck it is, it's startin' to really screw with the workflow. If I can't get the music scene down, the Vice Kings is gonna be shit."  
He finally said.

King himself visibly looked down on the man for his reckless toke. Why did it have to be right now that he had the hankering for it?

The worldly crime lord decided to finish the story for him.

"Normally, I wouldn't believe it myself, but she turned up when I came for a visit. It's . . . real. She's real all right. The bitch is costing me money.  
So, I need you to go investigate, and find out _what the fuck_ is goin' on." King was a commanding presence. It wasn't good to make him mad.

After years of loyalty, he'd grown accustomed to getting what he wanted, whenever he wanted.

There was a minor silence. The duo hadn't even been invited to sit down.

Morrison broke the quiet, "Well, we'd still need to draw up a contract, but Mr. King says he'll pay cash. I'd likely take that as _concrete_ , if I were you."

Why was the man giving them a case related to such a criminal?  
He was literally a boss of the underworld; Dante hated taking jobs from anything related to that scene.

Ben King, leader of the Vice Kings; not really someone either of them wanted to associate with.

Cooler heads prevailed.

"What's in it for us?" Lady finally spoke up to question the man.

"For starters? You get to walk out of here alive." King said, calm as usual.

The threat was so stock, so clichéd, Dante just couldn't help but let a laugh slip out. The man grimaced at him.

Uh oh.

"Somethin' funny?" He asked, deeper and grittier than before.

"Uh . . . that's just a- . . . it's a bit unoriginal, don't ya think?" The slayer was bored by him.

" . . . I suppose so." King thought about it for a moment. It _was_ a pretty generic threat.

The slayer looked at the food on the table: burgers, beer, garlic bread and a host of other things that really didn't belong on the same surface together.

He swiped up a piece of the garlic toast and took a bite.

"So then, lets try it again. What do we get outta the whole thing, if we uh, do a little exorcism for ya?" He munched his way through the statement, not really bothering to finish before speaking.

Their proud, potential client was stone-faced for what seemed like forever.

Finally, he cracked a smile and said, "Whatchu lookin' for, man?"

* * *

 **To Be Continued**


	2. Strange Things, Man

**Kingdom Come Records**

* * *

Dante steadily strolled into the building, a guitar case in hand and his giant blade missing. It was daytime now, the meeting having ended a few hours prior.

He was led into a small little control room behind a window pane of glass.

There, two men in yellow, one in casual street clothes, the other in a suit, lounged about lazily.  
They'd been going back and forth over some stories about a girl they'd known. The man in the suit couldn't believe what the other was telling him.  
Meanwhile, in the recording booth, sipping occasionally on a cup of decaffeinated coffee, was a young black woman.

She was roughly 5'6", though it was hard to tell because she was sitting on a tall, dark stool.

She, herself, was also chatting with Ben King. It wasn't clear what they were speaking about because the microphones were shut off temporarily.  
That, and they didn't dare spy on King, even coincidentally. Last guy like that got popped on the spot, no seconds spared.

Lady followed him in, and the two ingratiated themselves, sitting down on a comfy couch to their right.

The one man in the suit, as it turns out, was actually Warren. He'd calmed down, relatively speaking, from last night. The man sitting on the couch was huge and sternly built like a brick wall.

"Hey 'big W,' what's up?" Dante said about as subdued as possible.

"Yo. Me n' Big Tony just been hangin' shootin' the shit. Everything good 'round here?" Mr. Williams loved to be as accommodating as possible.

It gave him a sense of authority that he often lacked, though to be fair he normally didn't deserve it.  
The sheer degree of gratification he earned from these kinds of interactions granted him a feeling of wholeness.

"Yeah, everything's pretty chill so far, but what's the story on your guys's operation?"

He was curious, and though Lady really didn't like to be involved in any extroverted activity, she indulged him, pretending to seem interested.

His question amused the hustler, so he allowed himself a small chuckle, "Back in the day, Ben was a lot less tame. These suits? Heh, a yellow hoodie did the trick back then, man."

Dante pretended to be impressed, giving a look of surprise.

"What's with the red?" Big Tony asked, much more serious than Warren. He didn't like them, nor the thought of entertainment very much.  
Truth be told, he'd rather be somewhere else too, because he didn't even like Warren that much, either. He was like a sniveling toad on crack.

"Piss-yellow isn't exactly my favorite color." Dante said, matching the man's unfriendliness.

He cocked an eyebrow, no one usually spoke that way to him and lived.

"You wanna run that by me again, mothafucka?" He said, standing up to showcase his behemoth physique.

Warren didn't like that.

"Hey! Sit your fuckin' ass down before I take yo head off with a tourniquet!" He jeered at the man.

Tony was taken aback slightly by his small superior's outburst. Then he saw the look on Dante's face. He wasn't scared of him at all. In fact, he was smiling.  
It gave him a weirded out feeling, so he felt compelled to back down. Tony wasn't particularly smart but he knew enough. He just sat back slowly, remaining aggressive.  
This motherfucker thought he was the king, heh, only one king around here is Ben, and he's starting to show his age.

"Shit. . . Always makin' trouble." Warren said to himself when he turned back to sit down.

Lady shifted uncomfortably. She looked ready to draw and gun down everything in sight within a few seconds.

This didn't go unheeded by Dante.

"Hey, relax. We're on the job, remember? Loosen up, I'm here with ya." Dante communicated with a whisper, "Just be cool."  
She felt reassured alright, but never let it on, keeping her face blankly staring into the wall above Tony's head once he sat back down.

"Sorry about that, my man get's excited, ya know? I'd caution not to say more shit like that though. Yellin' only works to a certain point." Warren was rather casual about the whole thing.

He couldn't count how many times he'd seen that black giant take someone apart over something as petty as words.  
Anthony felt a bit off, he really didn't trust the man in red. There was something about his vibe, it just made him hate.

Dante sensed this, he was naturally empathic in many ways. So he played to it to spite him, glaring at the thug on occasion with a look he usually reserved for darker entities.

Both men kept their guard up, with Dante not caring and Tony caring too much.

Eventually, King'd finished his conversation with the woman, so he spoke into the mic.

"Yo, Warren. I need you to lock it down." He said, though the two mercs didn't know what he meant.

Warren responded, "I got you Boss."

Ben left the room, leaving them to do their thing. What wondrous gutter-poetry they'd create.

At the console, Williams pressed a combination of a few buttons and gently moved some sliders on the mixing board.  
He pressed the button that enabled response through the PA system.

"Aisha-doll, ready to lay it down?" It was exceptionally hard for him to not actively flirt just a little bit.

She was a warm presence and spoke back lovingly.

"Take it from track six, baby."

It prompted curiosity from the slayer, "What's track six?"

"Don't Fuck Me Like I'm Your Wife," Warren explained without batting an eyelash before placing his black headset on his ears.

He initiated playback, and soon, the entire office was filled with a smooth texture.  
It was warm, much like the girl in question. Everything about it was sweet to the ears, including her voice. It was like honey pouring in their eardrums.  
She sang like an angel, her voice accompanied by a multitude of modulated backing tracks, though it sounded unpolished in places.

The song was good, but it still needed work. The drums were sampled but they sounded a bit too rough in the mix.  
Distortion was an unwanted friend, though the vocals were perfection. Warren adjusted it midway through, tweaking various portions to make the overall sound cleaner.  
Eventually, he attained what sounded like a perfect mix. It was like ear-candy, each little beat had an awesome, syncopated subtlety.

Her voice was in front now, and it could be heard that she never faltered from any line or note. Truly, she was a bright soul.

Lady sat mesmerized, while Dante sat back with his eyes closed. Ironically, Big Tony did much the same.  
The track eventually came and went, though the atmosphere was changed. Warren pressed the button again.

"That was tight. We still got some tweaking, but I think we are gettin' there." He said, shining a delightful smile as Aisha replied, "I'm gonna take a break. i'll be back in about five minutes."

When she left, the door to the control booth opened. In walked Ben.

"Fellas. I had my boys down in security go over every cam' in this joint. There ain't anything out of the ordinary so far."

Dante didn't even care. He shook his head and looked up at the man.

"Well, of course nothings gonna show up _if you're looking for it_. Also it's daytime. And while it's not uncommon for the supernatural to manifest during light hours. . .  
The show starts in the dark, most of the time. Kinda sucks cause people can't see, they get in the way every time." He said.

Out of the corner of his eye, the shadow of a clock shifted to become parallel with that of the painting. He stared suspiciously, causing everyone to also glance at the object.

"What? What is it?" King questioned.

"That's. . . That's not-" Dante muttered as he stood up and approached it with care. The others crowded behind him. He inspected the device thoroughly but couldn't explain the shift.

It just wasn't right.

Eventually, after tinkering about, he turned back to them, "Well-"

When he'd spun around to share his observation, everything looked normal for about only two seconds.  
Behind King's profile was something. . . Something that wasn't supposed to be there.  
Hidden halfway was a decayed face gaping at him. It's eyes glowed otherworldly, icy in quality. It just barely resembled a woman.

Dante jolted forward, drawing Ivory past King's head in a split-second. Big Tony reacted instinctively, belting the slayer across the jaw, but he didn't react.  
His head violently jerked back into place, almost like nothing even made impact. It felt like hitting a concrete wall, the gangsta's knuckles popping.  
Upon inspection, his target wasn't even scratched. Dante's attention remained fixated on the face, but as soon as the fist derailed his line of sight, it'd vanished.

He slipped through them and continued to scan the area, looking for the grey figure constantly.

In spite of the fact that the room was so small, he investigated it like an open ballroom. No area was safe, it was all a puzzle.  
His gaze seemed to not even be towards any relevant piece of furniture, almost like he was just looking. . . Somewhere.

"Mind telling me _what the fuck that was about!?_ " Warren yelled up to the silvery bounty hunter.

Finally, the man gave up his strange search.

"It was an apparition. _Something_ was in here with us." He said very plainly.

King grabbed a small, yellow and blue walkie-talkie device. Before he clicked the button to speak, Dante turned to him and motioned negatively.

"That won't do you any good. Security camera's won't pick that up."

The statement made Ben more unhappy than he thought it would. His face crinkled in a bit after he went to exhale into the compact device, "Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do then?"

"Business as usual till something else happens. I know, it sounds crazy, but go with me on this. You're all going to have to. . . 'Act normal.'" He put on a sarcastic tone of fear before conceding,  
"I'm just kidding, you guys are all right. Mostly."

He spun his silver piece like an old cowboy, almost seeming to grimace like Clint Eastwood himself before holstering the weapon.

Lady spoke up, "In all fairness, a malfestation like this requires patience."

"Yeah, You're absolutely right. If Wreck-It Rambo here hadn't broken my concentration, I coulda gotten one problem off your hands for ya." Dante said, sparking Tony.

The group collectively got in the way of the triggered thug, wanting to stop any further idiocy. Maybe he was high, it would explain why the man was on edge from the get-go.

"He's got some fire to him. Dare I say steam?" He ended the phrase with an effeminate lisp.

Tony further raged out, clawing his way past the others, managing to strike Dante in the opposite side of his face.  
The results were identical. He didn't move at all and no blemish remained. Nevertheless, the giant kept at it, going further and further out of his mind.

That's when Dante saw it.

Behind the drugged out crook, a little, dissenting Cherub with bony wings plucking at his back, attached to him. It's eyes glowed red from the irises and a horrid, mischievous smile dotted the cheeks.

It stared down the slayer, giving him a cauterizing eye unlike any humanoid could. As it did, it appeared to eerily 'feed' on Tony, tearing out pieces of flesh from his back.  
This appeared metaphysical, the meat being torn so vigorously without so much as a scream from the big man in front. It's grubby hands were so insistent, needling his soul.  
He drew the silver piece again, pointing it straight at Tony's forehead. The thug stood back from the barrel, his hands raised slightly in a plea of some sort of forgiveness.

Dante crested the tip of the gun on his brow and ran the weapon down the bridge of his nose to his right cheek.

The brute's sudden lack of movement made all others cease action as well. A cord of tension strung through the room.

"Aight- What you gonna do? Shoot me? I've done more cocaine than you weigh, mothafucka!" The man said, not truly afraid at first.

Dante cocked the pistol, retaining that same silent stare he'd given earlier. A bead of sweat ran down the side of Tony's head.

"You gonna stand there or what? I ain't got all day, boy." The big man wasn't used to feeling fear, "You're too much of a bitch-ass punk to pull the trigger."

Then the slayer stared him down, widening his eyes so that every vein across the sclera turned red.

Soon his whole iris appeared to bleed vermillion.

He didn't really need to strain, he could have just fired the gun past his ear or something.

"Alright, hey man, we cool. I-I was just playin', okay? You know I was just playin' anyway, can't ya-. . . Can we call it a joke and put the chrome away?" The burly man almost begged.  
Drugs made him a more susceptible to psychotic breaks, but also weakened his resistance to fear.

The devil responded without an ounce of sympathy.

"Sorry buddy. Every bit hurts. I gotta put ya down." He said. Dante squeezed on the trigger and the bullet released.

Tony closed his eyes and clenched hard, but death never came. A violent whizzing sped by his ears.

The Cherub's head exploded into reality, covering the glass and parts of the wall with bright, iridescent blood.  
Opening his eyes slowly, he stared at the slayer, who casually blew the smoke away from the barrel.

Dante stood there, careless, then said, "No, not really."

There was a continued moment of silence.

"What? Quit lookin' at me, you'll get a crick in your neck." The man in crimson once more placed the weapon away, then turned and spoke to King, "That isn't the one I saw before,  
but my guess is that whatever's here is triggered by negative emotions or something like that. Don't let anyone leave."

"Okay, why not? I have other businesses." King questioned, unsure of what to make of the newly-splattered child's corpse.  
He wasn't gacked out on anything, though he couldn't speak for Tony. Why was something impossible also happening to him as well?

"It's an infestation. It works a bit like any other virus; anyone here has a chance to take it with them there. Wherever 'there' is for them. . . Just don't let anyone leave.  
In the meantime, show me some security footage. I need to see if there's any clue about what incited the 'previous incidents.'" His reply was commanding, if not commendable for it's dominance.

King nodded and set Warren on a task to tighten up security, though he suggested Tony take it easy somewhere.

Afterwards, Dante & Lady left the room, led by the business man to the security center.

However, the slayer managed to remember a small detail.

"Don't forget! You might wanna get someone to clean that whole thing up. I doubt anyone want's to walk in and find kid-corpse everywhere."

King agreed just as much as he grimaced and called a team in. They continued to travel the moody halls towards the hub, but after a while, the building started to make little sense.  
There was a dream-like soundscape to it. An all-present, soft hum could be heard, neither emanating from office machines nor air conditioning. For the most part, things seemed to match up illogically.  
At some point, Lady swore they passed through the same waiting area they'd come through before when going to the control booth, despite not taking the same direction.

Eventually, even a hallway seemed to loop in on itself with fully-fledged offices not connected to the others they'd passed, despite this not being physically possible.

The labyrinth-like qualities that the building possessed were bewildering. Dante felt uncomfortable about the idea of letting Lady wander by herself in a fucked up place like this.

After sometime, they finally reached the chamber. It was clean and clinical, but poorly lit and small.

"What're we supposed to be lookin' for, exactly?" Ben spoke aloud as they passed through the black-brown wood doors.

"Don't really know yet." Dante said. Lady looked at him curiously. There was an endearingly stupid look drawn on his face, accompanied by a cool confidence that remained unbroken.

God help them if they make it out of this criminal hellhole.

* * *

 **To Be Continued**

* * *

Heya, sorry it took so long for a second chapter, but the thing i realized when writing this is that i want to make this series drastically different from Devil's Like Us.

The reason for that, primarily, is because I want that story to be serious and this to be closer to dmc roots. So this series is just going to have an emphasis on standing apart.

Shout out to Pickle Rick for making me lose my shit in the middle of the night when everyone was trying to sleep. Hilarious!

Anyways, thanks everyone, I hope you continue to like this series and i'll try to get back to writing more.  
Reviews are appreciated. Love ya


	3. Creeping Death

**Kingdom Come Records**

* * *

Somehow, King didn't pull out his gold-plated GDHC .50 and blow Dante's head off.

He liked him. There was something about the honesty on his face that screamed loyalty. King was the respected founder of the Vice Kings.  
The group was a few decades old. Originally organized as a fighting force meant to take down an even older gang that had terrorized the streets, they'd been successful, for the most part.  
Destroying their rivals with brute force and fierce gunplay, they toppled the hierarchy of the city to become the most dominant force in the region.

Nevertheless, King grew restless. The city they occupied, Stilwater, was torn apart by their warfare like thin skin. He saw it through that the destruction would be avenged over time.  
Slowly but surely, things started recovering. The bloodshed left Benjamin wise and skilled, molded as a ruthless tycoon.

The man spent years building up and branching out into legitimate business ventures.

And then, there was a fucking ghost.

Why, of all things, did his company have to be haunted by a pseudoscience? Yet, the apparition was there, stalking all those who would call themselves a Vice King.

He didn't want to believe that it came down to hiring a paranormal investigator. He was a businessman, he didn't have time for stupid shit like this.

Then again, maybe that was the reason as to why he was acting so calm. There wasn't a shred of credibility to any of it, yet it was the only option forward.

Stranger things have happened. Such as . . . strange things.

In the end, he'd been talked into it by Tanya Winters, his lieutenant responsible for running the gang's brothels.  
At least she was somewhat dependable, unlike others in his ranks.

* * *

 **Club Obsidian**

* * *

"Whatchu lookin' for, man?" Ben said, cracking a smile. Make the best of a bad situation: it's best for business.

"Not anything insane. I could use a new Ferrari though." Dante said.

For the sake of appeasing his crew, he played along, "Hope you don't mind it in yellow."

"Eh, I'm mostly red-blooded." This didn't go over well. He could see at least seven thugs had grabbed at their pieces, prepping to draw. "Suit yourself, what kind of budget we talkin' here?"

"I've set up a small pool of funds-" King was cut off.

Warren grew impatient. Maybe it was the tequila he took a shot of; maybe it was the seared steak fajitas in his stomach . . . or maybe it was the line of coke he just snorted.  
Whatever drove him, he chose to play big man.

"The sky's the fuckin' limit." It was such a confident tone.

"Excuse me?" He was so startled he just plainly asked the question like a child.

Williams gave his superior a signal with his hand. It usually meant something akin to, 'i've got a plan.' Williams didn't really command enough respect to do that to anyone.

Morrison was good at improvising.

Before anyone said another thing, he took control, "Our starting fee is fifteen thousand. If your problem persists, additional visitations are a thousand a piece."

The price was a lot more reasonable than what King thought it might be. Those who deal in the irrational have an inflated ego.  
Hopefully, there wouldn't be any 'additional visitations,' whatever that meant.  
Since Williams was high, the weathered bigwig chose to have some measure of pity on him.  
He was a damn good producer, and that kind of asset was far more valuable from a business perspective than anything he could do on the street.

But Warren wanted to be gangsta.

"Sold. As long as you take care of this, without disrupting the overall workflow, it's sealed." King was an old school man of his word. A deal's a deal.

Even if some snot-nosed producer made the call for him.

Dante looked a bit troubled, he looked to Morrison and begged his attention.

His liaison accepted, briefly qualifying the exchange, "Excuse me."

Those at the table nodded.

In a barely audible whisper, they traded information quickly.

" _Ten thousand_ _!?_ That's _way_ more than normal! Are you sure ya know what you're doing?" Dante murmured, almost nervous.

Almost.

Morrison was agitated, "You think you're the only man with debts to pay? That's not anywhere close to what these guys make in a month. It'll be fine."

They parted ways and the slayer gave him a look of concern for his mental health for a moment before returning to his casual lean.

Grizzled, the handler returned to his usual posture and returned to the task at hand.

"Right, based on a conversation with my colleague, he's confirmed to me an interest in your case."

Morrison played it off as little more than a foray into business politics, which it technically was.  
Albeit, not in the same way some at the table might have expected.

"Hmm, yeah. That's about right. Long story short, I'm in." Dante kept tapping on the wood beam carelessly.

The smell of crack and meth stunk up the joint, in spite of the clear presence of an overwhelming incense.  
Dumb criminals, dumb results.

There was a police station across the road that answered to a different gang. They didn't like that.

So that was how that business went down. Their business settled, they left discreetly while the other Vices departed idiotically.  
Cars crashed around lazily, like the driver's just forgot the rules of the road, and the rain came back.  
It poured like tears of the moon, drowning out the violence in the alleys and bars. The bleak surfaces of the post-modern buildings stabbed the sky.

And all the while, shady business continued into the darkness.

So it goes.

* * *

 **Kingdom Come Records**

* * *

The halls were wrong.

This whole place was wrong. It spun around like a spiral, it didn't follow what the worker's had built.  
Like something took control of the molecules that govern the concrete, the bricks, carpets, and the light and wound it up in a web.

He'd already experienced it. The slayer wasn't averse to the nature of such things.  
Many, many, many times previously, when dealing with possession, the creature-in-question often exerts a very peculiar influence on the world around it, pulling everyone into it's vision.

Whatever that really was, he didn't care.

He had his guitar case with him, simply for the illusion of being a musician. He'd given the guitar a try before.

Nevan was a cool little experiment, though he hadn't touched the thing in a while.

The cameras illuminated a world of wonder, at least for himself.

He could see all sorts of different things, most of them inhabiting other spectrums.

King saw nothing.

Lady, while well aware of the likelihood that something was wrong, also couldn't make out much different from what a normal person would see.

Though as they stared, it appeared hypnotically able to 'show' them something every once in a while.

The veil of normalcy would peel back just enough . . .

.

.

.

"What the fuck . . . ?" King said. He zeroed in on something that didn't look . . . right.

It was so subtle, not many could make it out.  
But there it was, in the common room, unmitigated by the feed for just a second, a spectral face screamed silently.

The old woman from before.

This whole place was contaminated. Once one got in, the whole area was fueled by the other place, bound into it.

Just as the man noticed, he turned to speak with Dante, but he'd gone.

"Ha-" Benjamin just looked around, a bit taken aback. Lady was still there, also scanning the monitor wall.

She caught his bewildered face.

"Ah, yeah. He does that. It's normal. You'll get used to it."

Her statement didn't really alleviate him.

"Wh-where did he go?" King stumbled in response.

"My guess, wait for it-" As soon as she tried explaining, Dante zipped into view on the faculty lounge camera.

* * *

 **The Faculty Lounge**

* * *

Dante found himself surrounded by other, high gangster's, smoking angel dust from lightbulbs.

"Hey, good evening. How ya doin? Great." He said to them, all unnerved by his sudden burst through the door.

He scanned the area.

Well, the entity was there at some point.

The man walked around, luridly searching where the entity could have gone.

Dante took a stroll, marking each step for later. He crawled through, teaming with charisma as he oozed his way past many gangsters, all of whom were twitchy.  
He looked and looked for anything. But nary a trail nor ghost caught his sight.

"Well, shit." He said to himself.

Lady quickly came into the room, aided by a confused King, who stopped him in his tracks.

Odd, since he came in the opposite door.

"Would you mind explainin' to me what the fuck you're doin'?" The man said, towering above them like a bear, though he wasn't really that big.

"What does it look like?" Dante answered blankly.

The man was a good deal taller than the crime boss.

"How-eh-it . . . well-, well it looks like you're investigating something." He said, calming himself down and joining Dante after he motioned to him.

Dante called them over to inspect a corner.  
Behind a potted plant next to a leather couch, he knelt down to see it.

A small little puddle of glowing, iridescent goop.

"Holy- How did you find that?" King said.

"I was looking for it." Dante replied. "It's a spectral residue. I've seen it many times before, but it's not usually secreted by a lone ghost."

"What is it?" Ben said.

"Ghost poo." Lady responded for the slayer.

"Yeah, kinda. It leads me to my correct assumption." Dante said, all sleuth-like and stuff.

"And that was?" King said, a bit stifled.

"You've a ghost infestation. Right now this building isn't _just_ being haunted. Something is tied into this place, using it as a supernatural hub." He replied.  
It was all very complex stuff, except for the times when it wasn't.

"Wait, wait whoa whoa. So you're tellin me that my building _is_ haunted? I already knew that!" He said, angered at their lack of new information. It was just repetition.

Dante scooped up some of the thickening plasma with a pen, placing it inside a small little plastic ziplock bag he took from his coat pocket.

He handed it off to Lady, "Here. Take this to the fridge. We'll reconvene there."

Dante stood and then started relating to the vexed kingpin.

"Hey, hey, hey, relax man. We're dealing with something science can't explain here.  
Just take a load off, go smoke a cigar, drink something. We're going to get together here in the lounge in about . . ."

He looked at his wrist, though he had no watch.

"Eh, I'd say two hours." He finished.

"Okay . . ." He said reluctantly, "Okay, you're right." He gave a deep inhale, then said, "Right, i'm gonna go to my office. You're free to stop by if you have any questions."

Ben wasn't a particularly hard or inflexible guy. Well, he was hard in that tough, gangsta' way.  
A bit of that young blood still made him dangerous in a way. Nevertheless, he was hellbent on having this problem solved within the day.  
The man departed slowly, walking the lifeless, postmodern halls as he made his way back to confines of the elevator.

He pressed a button that took him up to his office and walked into the conference room.

* * *

 **Upstairs Office**

* * *

His office was both an office and a conference room, you see.

Ben grabbed himself a square little glass and a bottle of perfectly aged gin.  
He'd become something of a liquor connoisseur over the years, often purchasing expenses he'd dreamt of as a child the closer he reached infamy.

The police didn't know what he was capable of really.

Well, that's why he'd bought them anyway. The real glory was gaining the things he'd never had. They were all symbols of power for him, however lunatic-fringe they seemed to others around him.  
Los Carnales, the gang of yesteryear. He'd heard they were still floating around out there, bringing their flags around like little baboons with their sticks.

Needless to say, he considered them unintelligent.

He was a business man now, refined but above those he gunned down.

King raised his little peg of a glass, sharp and refined like the man who holds the cup, and he said a little toast to himself.

"Here's looking at you, ghost."

He smirked to himself and chuckled. Taking a sip, he let the cool liquid slide down his throat, basking in each little nuanced flavor as it passed through to his belly.  
Ben put the glass down and gave an obligatory 'ah' as he considered the taste refreshing.

That's when the dark woman in a white wedding dress waved at him.

King bolted backwards, nearly falling out of his chair as he knocked the bottle onto it's side, the contents spilling out onto the floor everywhere.  
He scrambled and grabbed his piece as the entity floated towards him, elongating it's spindly spider's finger into an onyx spike.

He aimed and opened fire, cocking the pistol as he clicked the safety off.

Each shot collided with air, embedding within the creature but never really harming it.  
It twitched and convulsed it's body, drawing closer and closer as it dug the spike into his left bicep.

He struggled and struggled, frightened yet fighting back.

It drew closer.

Closer.

The sight broke his mind. He screamed at the top of his lungs, begging anyone near to help him, though none would come.

That menacing, dystopian breathing, and those impish whines. They were more evil than the most violent criminal he'd killed.  
They were darker than any woman's eyes he'd peered into, and more haunted than any poor bastard he'd left fatherless.

As it prepared to rip out his heart, Big Tony rushed in, pulling the boss away from the nightmare.

He struggled with the vindictive spirit.

"Get off him! Get the fuck off him!" He screamed, and though it nearly killed him, he managed to pull the ailing King away.

The stinging wound in his arm remained as the entity appeared unaffected by the arrival.

Instead it floated toward them, intent on killing both as they tore through the stagnant office air, breaking through every door and ultimately finding solace in a stairwell.

They didn't stop there, practically hurling themselves down the steps to get away.

King could hear it hissing.

He could always hear it now, that sickening whine and the distorted grumbling.

Making it a few flights down, they looked up the stairwell to see a deathly gaze.  
Time to go.

Big Tony was a loyal lieutenant, and he was often the only one that King could trust, in spite of the earlier incident with their hired Hunter.

They crashed into the hallway adjacent to the lobby, where Tony went for the exit.  
And it wouldn't open. He pried and pushed, shunting back and forth in vain to get out. He tried breaking the glass, but a gust of wind, and ragged screech behind them forced them to keep running.

Racing down the twisting halls, scrambling in and out of vague doors, they kept running till they bumped into a familiar sight.

King rammed right into Dante's chest and felt like he was tackling a brick wall.

Rebounding, he fell back and slid on the floor.

"Whoa!" The slayer said, startled a bit, "Jeez, ya all right? Take it easy. What's up with you two?"

He was soon answered.

The bride crept around the corner, seizing on air, convulsing closer and closer.

Dante put himself between them, his guns at the ready, his guitar case on his back.  
It floated by, creeping toward them inch by inch, masked by the veil of commitment.

Howling at the injustice of an early death.

He let the case fall to the floor, pulling a large blade from it as he did.

Ramming it upward, reverse-gripped, he slashed into it's chest just when it entered his reach. Black dust sprung out, covering all the walls.  
He brought the blade down into the cloud, righting his grip after the first swing to a more orthodox approach.

But Rebellion only hit air.

The entity was wounded, so it left them, for now.

The man on the floor wasn't happy.

" _What the fuck!?_ " King bellowed in his ear, grabbing the slayer's shoulder.

He tried to force him around, though the man would not budge. Like a stonewall, he just kept himself in place, not even faltering.  
So Ben gave up, and just walked around to his face.

" _What the fuck was that!?_ " He said, incensed further by the man's lack of reaction.

"Well, I don't know. It sure looked like our little ghost bride, didn't it?" Dante spat back, now deadly serious. King reeled back a bit, he didn't expect the man to be as angry as himself.

"If I didn't have to answer to him, I'd smoke you right now." Big Tony said, pulling out a piece and aiming it at Dante's forehead, "Who's the bitch now?"

He just scoffed at the big man.

"Go ahead. You'll give me a headache for a few hours."

Green's eyes lit up with confused rage.

"Let me remind you who's in charge here." King told the red mercenary, grabbing Tony's wrist. He looked over at King, hesitant.

His boss nodded at him.

"I'm the one frontin' the cost for this little soiree here, so we're gonna have a little staff meeting." Benjamin said, going further, "You're gonna tell me how we get rid of that thing."

Dante nodded, he knew not to press too many buttons, despite knowing that he could probably kill most everyone here.  
But it was the principle of the thing. He was too bored by being so amoral, that _and_ it gave him a sick feeling in his stomach.

How his brother ever managed to make himself so ruthless, he'd never fully get.

Then again, he knew all too well.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

"I told m'colleague we'd meet back up in that little staff lounge. You mind taking the meeting there?" Dante asked, a shred of mockery present.

King grunted, ultimately agreeing.

He motioned for Anthony to escort them. Resistant, he complied.  
As he led them through the building, they took a left, then a right, then another right. Taking yet one more right, they followed the windows, knowing it had to be near somewhere.

"Big man, you know the building by now, don't ya?" King spoke up, relating to the man a feeling of slight annoyance.

"Yeah, usually it's this way. Aheh, usually . . . It's always to the north of the stairs." He said.

"You guys, uh-. . . You guys been having any trouble finding your way around recently?" Dante asked, purely objectively.

Though he appeared to no longer be in such great standing with King, he was keen to respond.

"Now that you mention it-" He was cut off by a scream.

It belonged to a female.

Dante could hear the subtleties, that was definitely Aisha's voice.

The trio all bolted towards the voice, fast as they could.

It wasn't fast enough for his liking, so Dante just ran faster.  
The others didn't initially realize it, but he was easily outpacing them on an athletic level.

He searched, intent to seek and destroy.

They all rounded a corner, Dante a few feet in front of them.

The slayer used his momentum to his advantage, defying gravity for a small moment as he lifted off the ground and planted his feet on the wall.

Sprinting sideways across the wall, leaving minimal markings despite stomping down, he easily passed the corner, ricocheting like a bullet.

King slowed, wondering at the man, his mouth dropping a bit.

Tony kept running, letting the last of the meth in his system push past the distracting display.

Dante was out of sight, far ahead of them, sword in hand, ready to attack.

By the time they reached her, Dante had gotten to her.

They saw him fending off the bride with Rebellion, keeping the singer behind him.

King and Green opened fire, distracting the entity as it felt the tickle of their puny weapons.

Though they couldn't see it's face, it growled fiercely, then did something neither group expected.

It spoke.

" _ **Ha Shasa Eviktu, Sira Vey Lo Mach Tai!**_ " Then, in a weird, almost reversed-sounding way, mangled the words, " _ **There . . . Is . . . Noothiiiinng!**_ "

It was intentional english, but it sounded wrong, feeling like the entity had to force itself to speak them. The syllables were all off, not mispronounced, rather sounding warped.  
Seemingly, those words hung like a sticky rubber band, infecting their ears after speaking what sounded something close to ancient Egyptian, or . . .

Well, something close.

It then screamed, and melt away into the air.

The image of a rotted, pained corpse remained floating beneath a veil for a few seconds, then this too faded.

* * *

 **Back To The Faculty Lounge**

* * *

"Right, I've come to a new conclusion." Dante said.

The others listened carefully, among them Benjamin, Anthony, Warren, Aisha, Lady, and a few other confidants.

"And that would-" Warren began, before

"Spit it." Tony plied the slayer, interrupting Williams.

King sat at a table, slouched and tapping the desk with his index finger.  
The look on his face revealed a depression and a frustration.

"We're not dealing with a ghost anymore. The other souls stuck around here? . . . Hmmmsure." He surmised, then added, "What attacked miss Aisha today was no piddly poltergeist. It was . . . !"

He swelled up the drama in his voice, drawing all but Lady in towards him in anticipation.

"-A demon." Lady finished lazily, sapping his thunder.

The others calmed down and Dante shot her a scowl.  
Then he realized the payback had come.

So his look relaxed, and he mockingly quipped, "Well, when ya say it like that, it's anticlimactic."

* * *

 **To Be Continued**

* * *

Okay, so where to start?

Firstly, sorry for the wait. Beta reading got me tied up and i had a few fights with the flu. Seems there was a big old bug going around on new years. So i was bed ridden for a bit.  
Oh and school also ended. So i had a bit of a party there, watching various things, binging season 1 of Stranger Things.

Not that i expect this story to get much attention due to the lack of stories in this crossover section, but I've appreciated the surprising awareness this has gotten so far. Thanks a bunch.

To sonicsucks12: I understand your dislike, but understand this is set during a more serious era in Saints Row, and has relatively little to do with the main SR crew yet.  
This is the specific reason as to why this series has a darker, more serious tone than the modern Saints Row series, harkening back to the original, more Grand Theft Auto approach of SR1.

Anyway, will try my best to do a 4th soon, don't know when that'll be yet. But the series isn't half as dead as the other stories here.

See ya guys later, reviews are appreciated, even if you're a guest.


	4. Hit 'Em Up

**Kingdom Come Records**

* * *

Dante sat, bored by thuggish bickering about one's favorite hip-hop artist.  
Seriously, everyone he encountered today had possessed encyclopedic knowledge of rap.

"Nigga what? Dre had the tightest beats down man, ain't nothin about that Jay-Z can touch!" The one said, and the other played all offended.

"Motherfuckah, Dre's flow sucks, Z is tha king. Ain't no one gonna touch hits like 'Empire State of Mind' or 'Takeover!'" The sound of their voices grated on Dante's left eyeball.

'Please, shut up.' The slayer wished in his head.

They kept bickering over who was better monotonously.

In a world where he could punch holes through just about anything he set his mind to, the slayer was considering breaking his 'no-human-kill' rule.  
Following the discovery of the demon, the building was put into lockdown. Dante was formulating a plan to take care of it quickly.

All he would need was a way to summon and bind the creature, then he'd be able to kill it with good old-fashioned combat.

Sometimes the answer really was as simple as a sword.

Or a gun, that works too.

Yet, every time his attempts to focus were dogged by comments like, 'who da fuck is Drake?'

Eventually, a third criminal entered the room, and interrupted their argument.

"Yeah, but for real tho? Eminem got all you all bitches beat." He said, and the others mixed their denial with acceptance.

"The fuck you say!?" The one said, irate, "Eminem!? Really!?"

"I guess, but Z's still better."

"Oh no no no, that shit ain't even funny! Eminem's a white-ass bitch who can spit fast, Dre had the real deal." The man said, ardently sticking by his claims.

Dante finally had enough.

"You do know Dre discovered Eminem, right?" They looked at him, confused.

"Eh . . . So? Who the fuck asked you?" The Dre fan insulted him.

He didn't take kindly to that.

"No one. I just decided to speak."

"Yeah? Well Dre's still better. Best hip hop artist of tha 90s."

"What about The Pharcyde, Nas, Biggie and Kanye?" He questioned their argument plainly, and he knew the man liked at least of those as well.

The fan responded with a stutter.

"Wha- Well, I mean Nas is good too but-" The Dr. Dre fan was cut off by the Jay-Z fan.

"The Pharcyde's my shit, dawg. They, Jay-Z and Kanye are the top alt Hip Hop artists out there."

"Jay-Z started out as East Coast Gangsta and The Pharcyde haven't put out an album since 04." Dante pointed out.

"Wha- Well, what had happened was-" The guy was interrupted by the Eminem fan.

"Eminem and Kanye are the best. You know that Jay-Z clown is foolin'. Always was, always will be a poser." He said.

All of them were so confident in their opinions.

"Eminem was a bullied waiter and Kanye's a middle class drop-out, ya got anyone else?" Dante interjected once more.

At this, all three men started arguing in an increasingly childish manner.  
They didn't even have the common decency to take it elsewhere.

'He-oh, god. _Please_ don't kill each other,' Dante thought.  
He could really feel then tension boiling, they were getting twitchy.

They kept at it, maintaining their rising anger, fueled by an 'art form' he didn't understand.

Then, to make matters far, far worse, Lady walked into the room, touting an Uzi she was polishing.  
She was just looking for Dante, cleaning the weapon in preparation for when they'd deal with the demon.

Immediately, the crew drew their guns on her, all three exhibiting aspects of possible crack symptoms.

'You gotta be kidding me. I shoulda smelled it earlier . . .' He thought to himself.

They all trained their glocks, ready to fire in an instant.

Yet, her gun was bigger than any of theirs.

In a flash, all three men were smashed into various objects in the break room, and their guns torn apart.  
He shoved one down with an angry fist, flopping their into the microwave on the counter.  
The second the other tried to fire the gun, the slayer raced over, grabbing the bullet from midair as he knocked the man into the fridge.

Opening the door, he shoved the thug forward and slammed the contraption shut.  
It wouldn't kill him, but he knew it would hurt like hell. Maybe leave a mark.

Dante didn't like it when strangers pointed guns at people he cared about, especially this person.

Lady just saw the tail end of it, as Dante threw a man up against the wall by his throat with one arm. He'd done it so hard the man fell unconscious on impact.

A twisted gun, it's barrel spliced off at the trigger, fell to the ground useless.

He haphazardly dropped the man to the floor and looked back at her.

Dante stared at her and sarcastically spoke, "Would you put that thing away? Remember where we are, sheesh."

"Uuh, okay . . . What was-" Her question was cut short.

"I don't want to talk about it." He said flatly and left the room with her, thinking to himself, '2Pac was better anyway.'

He muttered a swear under his breath.

He'd have to explain this one to King sooner or later. Eh, the ghost- er, demon did it. Yeah, yeah that would work.

It made sense now as to why the halls felt sinister, like they'd been twisted out of fashion.  
The demon had control over the building, it'd been bound there somehow.

Actually, that was a pretty good point he hadn't realized.

If it wasn't your average poltergeist, then it had to have been summoned up.  
Demons don't just pop up into the human realm because _they can_ , there are barriers they should have to go through.

His father had seen to that, all those millennia ago.

They trudged down the halls to the entrance where they rendezvoused with King.

He was looking rather depressed, his eyes slightly bloodshot.

"So, what's the plan?" King had been informed to meet them here after the meeting by Lady.

She'd been notified by Dante to do so.

He'd had an idea, supposedly.

"I'm going to leave." Dante said.

"Wh- _What!?_ " King didn't like to hear that.

"I'm coming back, calm down old man." The slayer was casual as always.

"Old man!? You _fuckin' toddler_ , you got some nerve." Ben didn't like anything that detracted from him as a person, even little jokes that were obviously not serious.

"I have to grab some stuff from the shop, so don't lose your head. I'm bringing it all back. The sooner I do that, the sooner you don't have to see us anymore." The boy replied.

Dante didn't really care what King would do, he just needed to understand that it was part of the job.

He eyed Dante up and down.

The man was useful for sure, but he knew it.  
How could King manipulate him into a further venture? Perhaps smaller jobs would be a better use of the boy.

He decided not to lose his head . . . Though, he _would_ remind him who was the boss.

"Fine, boy. Go grab your shit. But, if you try to walk out on me . . . They won't find your white body. That's a Vice King guarantee." He snarled at the slayer.

He'd leaned in and really tried to hammer the message home, taking advantage of that thick vocal sheen.  
King wasn't for much more than some obedience, perhaps even trying to scare the slayer.

A good man knows his limitations.

And Dante unexpectedly laughed back at him.

"Is that a fact?"

King nodded, his face running red.

"Oh. Well, then I want _you_ to know something as well." He responded.

Ben looked at him with that sort of arrogant, 'really?' expression about his face.

The slayer pulled the older man close, placing a hand on his shoulder for the first time. This was significant.  
It was the first time someone had just up and put themselves in Ben's personal space since he'd become a crime mogul.

"You try anything on me? And I will put you in the darkest place, so evil, you'll _beg me_ for forgiveness." He growled it as a murmur into King's ear, who immediately tensed up.

"There's a special place in hell 'gangsta's' go, and I can take you there.  
I can lead you to a burning bridge above a canyon of howling, tortured souls or a blood river filled with the living ash of your ancestors." His eyes grew dark.

King's eyes widened, and he stared at the wall. He'd never felt quite this uncomfortable.

It was like a shadow had begun to choke his soul.

"Your pick, honestly, either one is terrifying." Dante, in that moment, lowered his voice below King's own.

The baritone growl disturbed him, almost like the mercenary was just a wolf in leather.

"Uh huh . . . Enlightening." Ben said, trying to shake him off.

Dante's icy grip tightened.

His returned to a normal volume.

"I can lay you out, and fill your mouth with your mother's feces . . . Or, we can keep this little arrangement."

Dante enjoyed breaking out what was essentially his Vergil impression.  
He was never so cruel or vicious, but damn was it fun.  
Words couldn't express the amount of hate in his chest anyway.

Should he have really taken this job if he was going to hate it so much?

"I don't have to keep being this nice." The silver slayer finished, posing the question, "What do _you_ think?"

That steely look was beginning to really creep King out.  
What was with this crazy motherfuckah anyway?

The sword, the . . . creepy, biblical threats.

His whole body became irradiated with the coldest chill he'd ever experienced, and Dante's growl galvanized the moment.

The slayer pulled back from his ear, looking at King with a disturbingly calm smile. His grip loosened, then ceased altogether.  
He didn't even bother to straighten his employer's jacket.

You could call it unprofessional of him to do this, but then again, he despised the job from the beginning.

The nervousness King displayed wasn't normal to himself, nor was it especially becoming of the most powerful kingpin in the city of Stilwater.

The slayer pulled out a little business card from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"Right, you keep that." Dante said, returning to his lighter nature. "Don't get any morbid ideas while I'm gone now."

Energetic and cocky, as always.

It was as if the whole interaction with King hadn't even happened.

Lady took notice, as though she'd seen Dante's dark half . . . In a way, she already had. It had bled through a bit in his voice just there.  
She came to realize just how much he hated working with these men, these high gangstas and their egotistical hip hop.

That was a bit of a first; Dante got along with _everybody._ No exceptions.

He even was able to get along with someone like Warren.

The two subsequently departed when the noticeably-shaken King unlocked the front door for them.  
As they left, Dante ensured the man would lock it again, as soon as they were out.  
Hopefully, no human would leave. It was more than likely a few of the gang members had some spectral 'passengers' following them by this point.

A city of possessed thugs probably wouldn't go over well with the local police, as corrupt as they were . . .

The two found the fresh air welcoming, and the resolve to return minimal.  
Nevertheless, Dante knew Morrison would kill him if he backed out.

Hell, if he backed out, they'd probably kill Morrison.

So they made their way back to the shop; Dante on foot . . . somehow, and Lady on her cycle.

Their wasn't any traffic this early in the morning, and so they found the open streets of Stilwater to be a comforting change.

Eventually, the two made their way out of downtown; Lady having to take the freeway to get back to Dante's shop, which was located in a more rural, red-light area.

They roved by countless broken down cars and rotted buildings, things that should have been discarded years ago.

For the most part, they were both capable of handling themselves.  
Would anyone really want to screw with a man wearing a red trench coat?

And if Lady looked as packed as she normally was, then the tall bombshell really didn't have anything to worry about either.

She pulled into Dante's shop eventually, and found it just as it was.

He was waiting there for her, just like before.

Arguably the biggest change was the time of day.  
They'd spent an entire twenty four hour period working for King, listening to obnoxious conversations and culture they really had no business being apart of.

If anything, for Dante it was good to be home.

It'd been awhile, certainly.

He hadn't slept for days, but that was a luxury his demonic half prevented him from needing.

The Cambion could stay awake for weeks at a time before needing any kind of rest.

He unlocked the front door, and the two grabbed what they needed.

Dante scavenged for a blue orb inside an ornate silver cage. Holy water.  
Often effective agains demons, it might allow him to kill it without much fuss.  
Lady seized her Bazooka.  
The Kalina Ann was a powerful weapon, one that could even destroy some demons due to it's sheer firepower.

Then, there was the book. It was an old, seemingly babylonian text, bearing an indecipherable title.

From this was a ritual that could forcibly bind a summoned demon, needing only to be within the same building as where one was convoked.  
If they could bind a creature like that, they could have a chance of killing it easily.  
Thanks to be mostly being in the field, he normally didn't have a use for his dad's old book. Dante felt this case to be . . . _'Special,'_ though.

He could just kill it through trial and error, like usual.

Never take chances though.

So they took whatever ingredients required, and packaged them up in a cardboard box.  
To avoid detection from the cops, they agreed to travel together, in a different manner than her motorcycle.

They'd need to, thanks to Kalina Ann.

Traveling out the front doors to his left, they went into a small alleyway.  
In front was a what looked like just concrete wall.

Dante pressed a pressure plate, and opened a passage that led underground.

The wall moved upwards seven feet, enabling them to step through.

So they did.

It wasn't the sewers, mind you, but rather just the tunnels that ran beneath the city.  
They were built during the old teamsters era, when some now-forgotten, big gangster ordered it constructed in secret.

They'd largely been neglected, principally after an earthquake had sunk the majority of the old city.

No choice in that situation but to build over it.

So, after that, no one was left to remember them.

Well, except the few that did, and began repairing them in secret.

Dante had heard there was a way to access the still-present underground if they went to the old mission hotel, but he'd never felt the need to go.  
Actually, that was _another_ good point, who knows what the hell might be lurking down there . . .  
Maybe he'd give a perusal one of these days. You never know where a demonic infestation's been spawned.

Slowly, but surely, they managed to follow a map of the tunnels to an alley, nearby Ben's record building.

* * *

 **Two Hours Earlier**

* * *

An Asian-American man, with a white-dyed flattop haircut, sat in a dark purple Cadillac Eldorado, next to a black guy with a beret. In the front passenger seat was an hombre named Dex.  
One white guy with a strong chin sat beside him in the driver's seat, parked in place across from Kingdom Come records in secret.

"Damn, these muthafuckas are loaded." The first man said, his streetwise face matching the ghetto tone. He had a purple bomber jacket.

"Tell me about it." Dex replied, not even wanting to go into detail. This man was wearing mostly jean-related clothes, with a purple visor turned sideways.

"Gat, these guys've been around since . . . Well, I don't wanna date myself. At _least_ 25 years. They're the toughest crew out here, or at least they were." The wise man in the beret said.

That was Julius Little, and he owned them all.

Even the car.

"Yeah? Well, they're gonna feel the wrath of a menace soon." Gat responded, grabbing the handle of his assault rifle, hidden from sight in the side of the door.

"Take it easy, Johnny." The driver said, a cockney accent pouring out.

They all stared at him, confused and shocked.

John, in particular, was quite miffed.

"Since when the fuck do you talk?" He demanded to know.

His target just stared back, empty inside.

"Relax Johnny, give the new playa a little room to breath." The boss interrupted. Julius was protective somewhat.

"Hey, it ain't my fault he decides to start sayin shit after nothin' at all." Johnny retorted, his rat-a-tat-tat drawl lazily speeding by.

He got stern looks, but he just ignored them.

The playa just returned to fiddling about with his revolver.  
It was the only weapon they trusted the rookie with.

"Get back to work." Julius grumbled.

Despite his reputation, Johnny Gat knew his place.

The building was huge and glamorous, no doubt the results of years and years of ruthless thuggin'. The Vice's weren't to be fucked with, thanks mainly to Ben King's wrath.  
From outside, the continued to play the waiting game, plying their targets with time and focus. Stake-outs sucked, but it gave a certain edge to the Saint's planning.

About two hours went by without any activity.

Johnny got restless again.

"Man, when the fuck are they gonna do somethin'?" He said.

"As soon as you stop asking." Dex replied, angered.

Johnny glared at him.

"Who da fuck you think you are? You're the 'Einstein' that's supposta' know their shit." Johnny replied, insulting Dex's planning skills.

"Yeah? Today, they were supposed to direct a crew over to the docks. You don't see that happening, do ya?" The 'Einstein' responded, "There's obviously been a change in plans.  
All we gotta do is go talk to my guy, and we'll get through the change. Ain't like I can control these muthafuckas minds."

Johnny couldn't deny he had a point, yet still he argued.

"You better find out what happened, I ain't sweatin' my ass off in this car all day, puta." Johnny used Spanish to describe Dexter, and that hurt especially.

"Why don't you go shoot up chinatown you yellow-" They started to really argue, getting into it hardcore until Julius yelled over them.

"Can both y'all shut the fuck up long enough we can focus on the task at hand? Don't make me shoot you both."

That stopped the conversation immediately.

"I say we wait for these niggas another hour, an' if we see no one leave, _then_ we head back to the row and focus on the Rollerz again." Julius knew what was best it seemed.

They couldn't really fault his logic. So many rivals, so little time.  
And so they waited. And waited. And waited . . . A lot of the time they waited, they were silence.

Waiting still . . .

Finally, Dex decided to talk to Julius.

"Yo boss, if we gonna start kickin' it to the Kings, we'll need some firepower. I was thinkin' we'd head back up to Arizona; buy some pieces real cheap."

It was ludicrously easy to get guns there.

Julius thought it over, Dex always had good ideas . . . Usually.

"Sounds good. I'll let you draw it up when we get back." He knew he could count on Dex, or so he believed.

The planner grinned to himself in satisfaction.

The waiting continued.

And continued.

And continued . . .

Good lord, something happen!

Then, they saw it.

Two crackers being let out of the back doors by King himself. This was odd. In fact, this was just completely unexpected.  
Unlike the Saints, the VK were a bit biased in it's recruitment measures.

Most of the time, the category was exclusively limited to just brothahs from the streets.

The crowd in the car was proof of that disparity; the Saints loved everybody.

So why were two caucasoids walking away, alive, from the most powerful black man in the city?

"Boss? You seein' this?" Johnny nudged Julius lightly, grabbing his weapon again.

"You sure as shit I'm seein' it."

Well, time to follow them. The Saints stayed back far enough they couldn't be seen, but close enough to keep in view.  
The brit wasn't particularly interested but kept his patterns subtle enough that they couldn't really tell.  
If he just stayed back far enough and never flared the engine, he could keep them relatively low-key, practically anonymous.

They followed the duo to what looked like a kinky strip club.

"What-'Devil May Cry?' Is it like, sadomasochist strip teases?" Johnny wondered aloud.

"Does that look like a strip club? That's too small." Dex corrected.

Johnny looked at the man for a moment.

"I'm gonna take that steering wheel . . . And I'm gonna beat you to death with it!" He threatened. He'd done something similar once of twice before, and Dexter knew it.

"Gat, relax." Julius ever-calming presence made it all better.

Then, after about twenty-five minutes of staking out the shop across the street, someone put it together that they'd been gone.

"Those fuckers have been playing us." The cockney one spoke up again, "I bet they knew we were tailin' em the moment we started cruising after 'em."

Julius was the only one of the four that seemed to listen at all.

"Okay, is this gonna be like a regular thing with you now?" Johnny asked, a bit more of a 'tough guy from New York' vibe in his speech now.

"You know what? He's absolutely right." Julius ignored Johnny's kvetching, "They been playin' us. I smelled a rat . . ."

They started to argue as Julius thought to himself.  
Johnny started to accuse others in the gang of being a rat, misinterpreting Julius deduction.  
Dex immediately defended both himself and Julius, arguing that it was the new guy.  
The playa stayed silent as always.

It went on for a hot minute, before a red car pulled up nearby.

Los Carnales.

"Guys." The playa tried to mention it.

They told him to shut up.

"Not now!" Dex said as they continued to remain engrossed in their conversation.

"Guys!" He said, a little more urgent.

The reaction was the same.

"Shut it!" Johnny barked.

The windows on the lowrider opened, and hail of gunfire bounded their way.  
As soon as he'd seen the barrels, the playa shifted into fifth and sped out of the line of fire.

"What the fuck!?" Johnny yelled.

"Drive-by, moron!" Julius exclaimed, smacking Gat on the back of his arrogant head.

"Yeah yeah . . ." He grumbled as they opened the windows and traded shots with the pursuant vehicle.

The driver swerved, taking an abrupt right as the Carnales anticipated the fake-out, following anyway.  
They should have known, this was just outside of Carnales territory.  
A second car joined, this one a red El Camino. They took notice of the similar brand as their own.

"Muthafuckas got a cadillac!" Johnny exclaimed as he poked out his AK and spread a bunch of shells.

"Cadillac!?" Julius replied.

"El Camino!"

"Those muthafuckas!" Julius yelled at the confirmation.

"I told you." Johnny kept his attention peeled to defense as the playa tried anything he could to lose them.

They swerved beneath bridges, at first speeding along the backstreets, away from civilization, but the chase spilled onto the main roads.  
Speeding past an abrupt curve, the playa slowed down, then looked back and yelled.

"Blitz em!"

The first car that appeared was the Chevrolet lowrider, the faded crimson car flying by just as Johnny got his gun out the window.  
He showered them with a hail Mary of bullets that took out the driver. They fishtailed uncontrollably, flying around as the car flew off into the gravel ditch.  
The occupants were crushed as the roof compressed, and a horrifying 'No!' could be heard escaping the mangled metal box.

A few seconds later, the leaking engine ignited.

The second car was distracted by the flames, so no one shot at them, but the vehicle slowed down to witness the carnage.

Rico and his boys were in that car. Hector wouldn't like that at all.

The Saints sped off, tagging the scarlet rivals as they went.

A hispanic voice called out, "Watch the paint, cabron!"

Playa didn't care. He was too concerned with survival.  
The chase continued, and this last car was the most annoying damn thing ever.

He'd swerve to the left, he'd weave in and out of traffic, nothing.

This damn car wouldn't crash, it wouldn't make any mistakes.  
It even scraped their own car with a few well placed bullets. Bastards.

They kept going down fifth avenue, going towards the freeway, casually shooting at one another as the worst thing yet to happen came true.

The cops joined in.

Police are fun, but they can also be dicks, and this was a dicky situation.  
About three squad cars showed after the first one called for back up. The Carnales had opened fire as well, taking out the good shooting arm of the officer in the passenger's seat.  
So when the cavalcade showed up, the playa realized there was going to be a pretty big amount of cops after them.

To be fair, he'd been driving like a lunatic.

Then again, the only reason for this at all was thanks to their gangly friends, hellbent on killing them.

Julius was still thinking on the connection.

The Carnales couldn't have been forming a deal with the Vice Kings, they hated each other too much.  
And yet, it had to be such an unholy union, the timing was just too coincidental.

A guy in a red trench coat just randomly walks out the back of their record building? The hub of their financial power, currently?  
No, no this was planned. They knew of the Saints now, and this was their move.  
Julius should have known by the color of the man's flags. Such a blatant showcasing of allegiance.

It was almost stupidly arrogant.

The playa blasted through a barricade, and the left tires got shredded by a spike strip. Well, this car was almost toast.

Not like it was originally theirs to begin with, but still.

Shit, the car was swerving.

And Los Carnales were _still_ following behind.

What would it take to get rid of these guys? A thought occurred to him.  
The bridge. They were close to the bridge now, having looped back around towards downtown after leaving earlier. If he could get close to the edge without driving off . . .

Worth a shot when you're already wanted.

They sped along on the right side of the suspended road, high above water. A set of train tracks bordered their left side, filling out the middle-space between the two directions of the overpass.  
To their right, the view of the ocean. Far out across the bay, past all the boats, was the skyline of a coastal city.  
It reminded Johnny of some old photos of Hong Kong he'd seen. Just this really, really dense outcropping of skyscrapers and green mountains.

Apart from the cops and this insistent group of Carnales, the road was more open than usual. A sub was also coming, speeding along the small, two-track causeway.

What to do, what to do . . .

Just then, a piece of shredded tire lodged in their wheel well, pulling them off to the right.

Overcorrecting, the playa forced the car back to the left, and they hit a motorcyclist. His body and his ride crumpled beneath them, as he became a temporary ramp.  
Launching up, the four watched in slow motion as they jumped the train tracks, the Carnales smashing into the thin barrier and heading up after them.  
Cops behind them watching in awe, screaming for them to stop as the border wall slowed down the cherry car. The Carnales fell down, first hitting the opposite barrier.

And then the train came.

It crashed into the still-airborne bangers, tearing through them like tissue paper.

A fireball engulfed their screams, almost exactly out of an 80s action film.

Following their unintentional launch, the train had only clipped the Saint's bumper, spinning them wildly around in an almost 180 degree fashion.  
They landed close to the edge, nearly crashing off the other side.

Of all things, you never wanted to end up in the water in Stilwater. Their was some nasty floating around down there.  
The nuclear power plant and the toxic waste dump nearby contributed to some gnarly discoveries.  
Of course, the news was already wildly sensationalized. There was always this same hispanic reporter, Jane Valderama.

She'd come on with that dumb 'reporter-voice,' usually asking insipid questions and pestering police. She had a nice rack though.

Amazingly, the car still ran somehow, though the back dragged heavily.

He could feel the steering wheel want to pull in a certain direction.

The rear bumper had been partially sheared off by the blunt force of impact.

Dex held his neck, he had a touch of whiplash.

Meanwhile, their rival's car had been crushed, the bodies inside probably being ripped apart by the impact. Fragments of metal got chewed up and ground into the locomotive's gears.  
Within a few seconds, the carriages became unhinged from the rails, and the metal heaps came roaring off the tracks.  
Dozens of subway cars crashed forward, tearing through the cops vehicles, destroying city wheels and taxpayer uniforms. Urban desolation at its finest.

The trains cars slammed through the metal blockade, scraping off the edge into the sea, leaving it's many occupants to sink and drown.

Officer after officer were crushed, chewed up and torn to shreds as the thing derailed in a matter of seconds.

The bridge supports came undone as one of the train coaches smashed directly through steel wires, and the entire bridge's left side began to collapse off into the sea.

Ocean spray mixed with blood, and the carnage continued as the entire bridge itself began to vibrate and sway.

Wisely, the playa put the car into the fastest gear it would go before they could be killed, final destination style, by any other cataclysm.

Rushing by countless cries of horror and broken families, the Saints shook themselves out, unsettled.

At one point, Johnny swore he saw a black-cloaked figure.  
The piles of mutilated flesh contorted with hunks of twisted iron could break your heart.

All this just because of a stake out.

They kept hearing explosions even after getting about a mile away, thankfully having been put on the side that led out of downtown. The row!  
Just gotta get back to the row. Even Julius was wary of the incident, feeling a slight sense of motion sickness and some whiplash.

After a time, they'd managed to get to a peaceful part of town, the chaos of the bridge long gone.

Though not far away.

The playa pulled through the drive-thru of a Freckle Bitch's.

Pulling away with a feast of oily proportions, the group ate in the parking lot of an old hotel. There was silence for a little while.

"That got a little crazy." Johnny spoke up.

"The fireballs were pretty cool though." The rookie spoke up again as he munched on a burger.

"Yeah." Johnny replied, then chuckled, "You know, I think I _can_ get used to you talking."

The playa smiled to himself.  
Then he stayed quiet for the rest of the conversation.

"If we get rid of the car, the police probably won't be down our ass." Dex suggested after swallowing some fries.

"Good idea. Jules?" Gat always had to ask the boss.

"Hmm? Yeah, sounds good. Better pick a good replacement." He replied.

What a fucking misadventure of a day. They got nothing accomplished. Like, at all.  
Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put Johnny on the Vice Kings.  
He made things messy, but he was loyal. It was a few conflicting interests.

He'd leave their operations as they were, for now.

* * *

 **Kingdom Come Records**

* * *

Dante and Lady arrived in that alleyway, climbing out of a manhole. Rather disgraceful to be here, picking themselves up by the filthy street.

She started to understand more why the man didn't like these kinds of jobs.

Nearby, an onslaught of chaotic noise thundered through the parking lots.

What on earth could that be?

The slayer didn't care, as long as he finished this damn job soon. They rushed out back into the lot they were in earlier, now from the opposite side.

That purple car was gone.  
'I _knew_ they'd been following us.' He though to himself. There were just certain things Dante knew. Perhaps it was well developed sense of danger.  
Maybe it was something supernatural, he didn't really bother with it too much beyond more than an acknowledgement of honing his senses.

He got to the back door. King was waiting, pale as a sheet.

"We're back." Dante knocked on the glass door.

He knew exactly the right force so it wouldn't shatter. King stayed sitting there, looking reluctant to even move.

"Come on old man, open the door." He said.

Lady stayed silent.

For King, he couldn't take the insult, so it got him to move.

"I fuckin' told you, white boy." He was back in 'boss mode.'

"Yeah yeah, we got the stuff." Dante said.

King stayed silent.

"What?" He asked, "You alright? Did it come back?"

At the reference, King seemed to acknowledge him, and led them inside as he locked the doors again.

Walking in, Dante saw a gigantic, gory bloodstain on the hallway wall.  
A shell of a person laid on the ground, the look of a thousand knives stabbing them at once etched into the skinless face.

"I take that as a yes." Lady mumbled. She was desensitized by now, and it creeped King out.

Dante looked back at Ben.

"When did this happen?"

"About ten minutes after you left." He replied resent-filled.

Ben continued with a hard swallow.

"It came for him, nobody could see what he was talkin' about." It was hard for the man to talk about, "When we came to see what was wrong . . . Found 'im just like that."

It was exceedingly difficult to get the words out without feeling bile rise to the surface.

"The others won't touch 'im. Think he's cursed or some shit . . . I been standing guard at the door."

Dante, in that moment, felt sympathy for the human devil. He could see how it plainly tore the man up to describe the death of one his crew.  
This boy, this torn prince, was just a kid coming up in the wrong crowd. Didn't deserve none of this, not even for a second.  
For all the dislike of King and his crew, Dante couldn't let this go unpunished. He'd right this wrong, even if it meant helping the Vice's out.

"Grab everyone you can." Dante told him.

King looked at him like he was a child. This insolent bastard was telling him what to do.

"An' why's that?"

"We're killing this fuckin' thing today." The slayer replied.

* * *

 **To Be Continued**

* * *

Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated.

* * *

 **Notes:**

So this time I included the 3rd Street Saints.

You may think this is a meandering plot point, and that the addition of these characters may complicate things.

Dmc fans who are concerned with not knowing the Saints Row, you don't have to worry.  
I try to introduce each character as if they were new, always. This is the reason Ben and the other members are completely given fully new introductions.  
Additionally, I plan to use the Saints characters more as ancillary personae.

For the most part, they'll be causing trouble in the background, often trying to encroach upon others territory.  
The whole scene here will have a definite impact in the next chapter. Don't expect them to keep popping up often like main characters. This story isn't about them.  
The focus will remain locked on Dante, Lady, and the Vice Kings. Stuff is still happening outside the building, that was the point of the Saint's scene.

Now, to add clarity, I take influence from music when writing.  
Very similarly to things like Devils Like Us and Hell's Bells, this series is influenced by a very specific genre.

While most of my other work, including my beta editing, takes influence from metal music, this is obviously more derived from, in terms of its themes, by hip hop music.

Specifically from the 1990s and late 80s.

The lyrics that dealt so directly with crime, police brutality/corruption and the clearly evident biases against those rappers really has that kind of rebellious theme I want to capture.  
So stuff like the aforementioned 2pac, Notorious B.I.G., early Jay Z, horrorcore-Eminem, and more stuff, like N.W.A., 90's Nas, and Wu Tang Clan are all really important.  
Also, Saints Row itself is pretty influential, the radio stations are very good in the first two games. So I went for that feel.

Nothing too gritty or hardcore, but very much crime and black comedy related.


End file.
